Jeff Lindsay - Dexter's Final Cut

So what did last night really mean?

For me? I’d had a far better time than I’d ever had without using duct tape, and I was very willing to make it the New Normal-but I had no idea what Jackie was thinking. She’d acted like she was having fun-but it could have been just that, acting. Maybe she had decided to trade a few hours of undignified exertion for the extra protection of having somebody next to her, a security blanket in case Patrick showed up. It certainly made more sense than thinking she had decided that Dexter was destined to be her one and only forever. After all, she was a world-famous beauty, and what was I? Nothing, really, no more than a simple forensics geek who moonlighted as a human vivisectionist. I had no right to assume there would be any more than one night, no logical reason to think that one evening of sweaty embrace had been the first step into a bright new future.

I stood there beside the couch in the warm sunlight that poured in through the windows, and I felt myself deflate. It would all end much too soon, and now there was a great deal more to regret than the excellent room service menu.

On the other hand, the menu truly was excellent, and deflated or not, I was still hungry. I picked up the phone and ordered breakfast.

I had finished eating and was halfway through my second cup of coffee by the time Jackie finally came out onto the balcony. She hesitated for just half a second, and then she leaned over and kissed me before she sat down. “Good morning,” she said.

“It seems to be,” I said cautiously. “How … um,” I said, and I heard myself stutter off into a rather awkward silence.

“What?” Jackie said.

“Well,” I said. “I was going to ask how you slept-but it suddenly sounded awfully stupid, because …”

“Yes,” she said.

“So, um-would you like some coffee?”

“Very much.”

I poured her a cup and she picked it up and held it in front of her mouth with both hands, blowing to cool it, and then sipping. When it was about half gone, she lowered the cup and took a deep breath. Then she let it out, slowly and audibly, and looked down at her lap. “I don’t …” she said, and then bit her lip and looked up. “I feel terrible.”

I did not see any way to take that remark as a compliment, and that must have shown on my face, because Jackie looked slightly startled and hurriedly added, “About Kathy. Being-dead.”

“Oh,” I said, with a certain amount of very selfish relief. I had been so wrapped up in my own torturous thoughts that I had actually forgotten about Kathy’s murder. Very shallow, no doubt, but I have never claimed to be a compassionate person.

“It’s my fault,” Jackie said. “My selfishness got her killed. And then we- I just feel so awful about what I did.…”

I wanted to tell her that she really shouldn’t, because she had done it quite well, but this time I knew she was talking about Kathy. Clearly, some words of comfort were called for-and surprisingly, I realized I wanted to make her feel better. “Jackie,” I said. “It really wasn’t your fault. If anything, it was mine.”

She looked startled. “Yours?” she said, and I nodded.

“I am supposed to be the expert,” I said. “And I had no idea he would attack Kathy. So you couldn’t possibly know.”

Jackie sipped her coffee and frowned. “Maybe,” she said. “But-”

“In fact,” I said, “this is so totally against Patrick’s pattern that I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out it wasn’t him.” I did not add that I would have been even more surprised to find out it was.

“You mean somebody else killed Kathy?” she said. “But why ?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

Jackie frowned and looked down, and then shook her head. “No,” she said at last. “Who else could possibly- No. That’s crazy.”

“That’s exactly my point,” I said. “Sane and solid citizens usually don’t do these things.” And I have to say I spoke with some expertise here.

She thought about it, sipping her coffee, and finally she sighed and shook her head again. “No,” she said. “I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but … I don’t believe it.”

I looked at Jackie, wallowing in needless misery, and in one of the strangest moments yet, I realized I wanted her to smile, laugh, feel the sun and the wind on her face and know true joy, or at least finish her coffee without bursting into tears. “What if I can prove it was somebody else?” I said, and she looked half startled.

“How?” she said.

I smiled, and it was very nearly a real smile. “This is what I do,” I said. “In all modesty, I have to admit that I am pretty good at forensics.”

“And one or two other things,” she said, but she heard herself being lighthearted and looked guilty. She turned away again, frowning.

“All I’m asking is to let me look at the reports and talk to Vince before you decide that you don’t deserve to live anymore,” I said.

A long moment later, she looked back to me, and if there was no actual hope on her face, at least she didn’t look completely miserable anymore. “All right,” she said. She took another sip of coffee, followed by a deep breath, and she let a determined look settle onto her face. “Fine,” she said. She put the cup down and reached for the two covered dishes on the tray, then hesitated. “Which one is mine?” she asked.

“Both of them,” I said, and she raised an eyebrow. “Well, I wasn’t sure-I mean, I got your regular church-mouse breakfast,” I said, tapping one of the silver covers, “but I thought … Anyway, there’s also an omelet and some bacon, in case you wanted something more, because, um …” I finished lamely, sounding far too much like Rita.

“Because I worked up an appetite last night?” she said.

“Well-yes, I guess so.”

She smiled. “I did,” she said. “But we start work in front of the cameras tomorrow, so …” She shrugged and lifted the cover off the toast and grapefruit juice. She put the cover aside and picked up a piece of toast, crunching at it and sipping the juice.

I eyed the other cover, the one over the omelet, and whether I was truly hungry or just needed something to do, I lifted the cover. “If you’re sure,” I said. “I mean, it’s really very good.”

Jackie sipped her juice. “I’m sure,” she said.

I ate the omelet.

When I was done, I poured more coffee into Jackie’s cup, and then into mine. We sipped, and the silence grew, and I wondered whether I should start babbling, just to fill the silence.

“Listen,” she said at last. I looked at her attentively. “Last night …” She sipped again, and then looked away. “It was very nice,” she said.

“ Very nice,” I said. “I mean, nice doesn’t really seem adequate.”

She looked back at me and flashed a brief smile. “I’m glad you think so,” she said. “But …” She shook her head and looked down at her feet. “There’s always a but , isn’t there?”

“I don’t, um … Is there? I mean, always?” I asked.

Jackie looked up at me again and made a kind of rueful smile. “Yeah, always,” she said. “I mean, right now it’s, ‘Wowee, thank you, Jesus, one more time’-but things are always different in daylight.…” She was probably right, and for a brief moment I wanted to try it in daylight to see how different it was, but Jackie didn’t seem to share that mood; she sighed heavily and looked away again.

“I was scared last night,” she said. “I was sure he was in the hotel, coming for me, and-” She paused abruptly and blinked at me. “Not that …” she said, looking very uncomfortable. “I mean-it was something I really wanted to do. With … you.” She looked at her knees. “You have this … I don’t know. Something about you that …” She pursed her lips and gave her head two very small shakes. “I don’t know. Like you’re this … normal man, secure and … and … solid? Ordinary? No, maybe comfortable?” She shook her head again. “And at the same time there’s this feeling I get like you’re one of the bad boys I used to like, with a switchblade in your pocket or something, and the combination is so …”